


endless days

by freakvzoid



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous Godlike Powers, Gen, Isolation, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Apocalyptic Wasteland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakvzoid/pseuds/freakvzoid
Summary: No, it never matters – she always wakes up to a brand new morning. She wakes, and she reaffirms this to herself.It’s a bright new day. I’m alive, and it’s a bright new day.
Kudos: 1





	endless days

_ It’s a brand new morning! _

It doesn’t matter how heavy her eyelids are, how dry her mouth is, or how prevalent her headaches make themselves. No, it never matters  – she always wakes up to a brand new morning. She wakes, and she reaffirms this to herself.  _ It’s a bright new day. I’m alive, and it’s a bright new day. _

She’s repetitive, but no one is listening, anyway.

Her eyes squint at the sienna sky every morning and relax at the same dark sky every evening. She remembers the pictures and paintings she found (so worn and dusty they were) of bright blue scapes, with their fluffy white clouds. Of the golden oranges and pinks that seeped into that endless blue as the night fell. Oh, the confusion that caused her  – why would anyone desire an inconsistent view above them?

The reds and browns are comforting, she told herself then, they’re  _ humble  _ and  _ familiar.  _ She buried the colorful pictures after that, and the strange pang they sent through her chest.

_ It’s a brand new morning! _

The whir of machinery, the whistles of the wind. Two very reliable alarm clocks, when there’s nary another sound. With nothing else to do, she took to occupying her hands, picking at large mechanical marvels from times long before her. She regrets it sometimes. It feels like desecration sometimes, especially when she makes a wrong move, and sends it tumbling to the barren ground  –  but the crash bounces through near-empty space, and she lets her worries bounce right along with it.

She likes to make her own sound; at times, she’ll have exhausted her voice, yelling, just to make a noise into the dry air around her. She hates the quiet.

It’s always too quiet.

_ It’s a brand new morning! _

There’s always something stirring.

She can feel it, she can  _ feel it;  _ it’s like having another pulse, wavelengths infrequently running through her. 

It’s terrifying.

She knows what they mean – she doesn’t know how she knows, but she does, as if it was explained to her clearly. (Explanations are not given to her often.) It’s terrifying because this extra pulse makes her feel so unnatural, filled to the brim, so – **uncomfortable.** At any moment, she feels close to exploding. At every moment, there’s a sharp pain as something so ungodly powerful runs through her veins again.

The vibrations in the ground, the crumbled, fading ground are her only solace. Their hum reaches her eardrums every time her fingertips push past the dust and grime, a soft whisper. 

_ It’s okay, you’re okay. _

_ You won’t have to worry about it soon.  _ A soft whisper. She tends to ignore that one.

_ It's a brand new morning! _

Her feet hurt, but she can’t stop walking.

It’s all the same to her now. The old monuments she passes, the bunkers filled with stuff of old to amuse herself with. Rusted machines, still using the last ounces of their strength to finish what they were built for. The winds, the endless winds that only manage to make the heat worse.

She likes looking at old clocks and calendars, just to remind herself that time still exists, because sometimes, she swears it doesn’t. 

Something’s out there, right? It has to be. Some sign of life out there. She feels close to tears just imagining it! Finally finding something with  _ life,  _ maybe even a pulse, just like her. But a pulse isn’t necessary, no, just life. Another presence, another soul, something else, whether attached to the dirt or walking in it, trying to find her, too! It has to be. Something has to be out there. Right? It has to be.

Right?

Her only answer is the wind, rushing through empty space.

She wants to stop walking. Her feet hurt.

_...What morning is it? Is it brand new anymore? _

She’s not really sure about herself.

There’s no one, there’s nothing to reaffirm anything, and it fills her with such utter dread. She squints her eyes at the tired world around her, in a meek attempt to convince herself that no  – no, it’s not all in her head, she’s not artificial.

But how can she know  _ what  _ she is? 

How can she ask to see another soul when she herself may not have one?

What if? What if the power pulsing through her is nothing but proof that she’s  **unnatural?**

She’s in pain, but what if that’s not real? She’s tired, but what if it’s a fluke? Time melds together, it feels, but what if it wasn’t true to begin with?

Her hands start glowing a faint blue, and her head hurts more with every question.

_ … _

Her hand meets the ground.

She doesn’t know what prompts her, not because nothing’s wrong with her, but because  _ everything’s  _ wrong with her; she can’t figure out how the thought was even coherent. But it was, it is, and she lets every vibration in the ground wash over her, in the same whisper. 

_...There’s something here. _

Her heart stops, she swears it does, as she feels it. An interruption, a break in the constant lifeless wave. It isn’t faint, either, even if it’s  _ small.  _ She feels it. Another presence.  _ There’s life. There’s life. There’s life. _

She didn’t realize until now how long it had been since she spoke, her voice hoarse from disuse. Still, she whispers it, rolls the words off her tongue. 

_ “Life, there’s life, there’s life here, it’s here, there’s life,”  _ She repeats the same phrases again and again, shocked to her very core. The wavelengths are returning, grasping at her windpipe, and it’s getting harder to breathe now, her heart is pounding, trying to break from her chest, but –

It doesn’t matter. 

Slowly, reluctantly, she rises, searching the land around her for this minute (yet oh-so-special) living thing. The heat is boring into her, yet she still shivers, and she can’t tell if it’s due to fear, or anticipation. She knows what comes after this, without anyone telling her.

But she has to.

She has to do it.

Her aching feet carry her, and she counts every step, every step leading her to tomorrow. And  _ god,  _ she wants this tomorrow; she wants a different day, she wants to see the morning.

And she drops to her knees, adding more dirt and grime to her worn clothes. 

That doesn’t matter, either.

For once, the quiet isn’t her enemy. She exhales out into the quiet world around her, letting her noisy thoughts settle in the dust for this moment, and this moment alone. 

And the quiet lets her hear the soft hum of life in front of her.

Hands shaking, she still lets them rest, cupped together. An invitation, with its thinly veiled desperation. The life ponders, then with quaking legs, clearly new to this old world, it climbs.

In truth, it resembles an insect; multiple appendages, antennae, and a straw-like mouth. Tasting the dry air, looking around desperately, as if it can’t see.

It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever laid eyes on.

They sit there for the longest time, taking in each other’s presence. She’s too overwhelmed to even cry, and she has no chance to relax. 

Something wells in her chest, and she knows. It’s time.

She inhales a shaky breath. Despite herself, she just wants to stay in this moment, let this little life grow comfortable on her palm, but that isn’t what this creature deserves. Far more, that’s what she wants for it. Far more than she can likely create.

In slow and deliberate motions, she sets the insect-like-life back on the ground. Softly, she rests her own head down, palms full of dirt.

And she exhales, letting the pain flow out with her breath. She doesn’t look at what’s happening (if only for her own peace of mind), she doesn’t really need to. The closest analogy she can think of is  _ letting the air out of a tire,  _ an overfilled tire, but with a lot more color. Colorful lights, dancing across her closed eyelids, colors she has no name for. 

She’s losing herself, giving herself to this world she thought she hated, bit by bit. She thought it would hurt more, but it doesn’t; it hardly hurts at all. 

She can’t look at what she’s creating, not yet, not now, because she knows she’ll be distracted and ruin the whole thing. All she wants is for it to be beautiful; she wants it to be even better than the beautiful world she had only seen in pictures. She wants the best for this little minute life in front of her, and for every life she’s making. There’s  _ so much,  _ there’s  _ too much,  _ and it’s all so overwhelming, and it seems to go on forever. It’s more than she’s ever felt. It’s more than she will ever feel again. 

She’s tired.

Everything begins to settle to a soft hum, and her senses  – her senses feel like they’re losing circulation, tingling as feeling begins to leave her. Without realizing, she slumps over, rolling onto her back, onto a ground significantly softer than it had been. 

She wants perfection, even if she cannot reach it  – not for herself, but for whatever she may have created. An overwhelming urge to give the entire world and more surges through her, but she’s done all she can.

All she could ever do.

Her eyes squint at the blue sky above, with fluffy white clouds at the edge of her vision. She’s given them the morning.

_ It’s a brand new morning,  _ she whispers to them, the life now bubbling around her, bursting at the seams of all that she’s created.

_ It’s a bright new day. You’re alive, and it’s a bright new day. _

She loves this morning most of all, even as it fades from view.

**Author's Note:**

> something i wrote almost two years ago now WOW.....i don't have the heart to rewrite it or edit it too much even if i think it could use some polish
> 
> anyways. The Bitches In Writing Club Loved This Hope You Do Too


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